


In The Shadows

by Anonymous



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-28 05:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: His grandfather had always told him that the best way to learn was on the job, and learn he did.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 20/06/17 Edit: I went over the story again, and found some inconsistencies and grammar errors, so I edited those.

Irene knew that at some point in her life, she would have to lie back and think of Attolia. Three weeks into her marriage, she still had not arrived at that point, and she wondered if she ever would.

It was not tonight, at least. Not tonight.

Tonight, she lay back, her mind filled with nothing but the hazy amalgamation of pleasure, fear, wonder, and the occasional burst of frustration at not actually knowing _what_ she was feeling.

She clasped the sheets beneath her when a particular stroke of heat seared her core, and she almost cried out. She opened her eyes, realizing for the first time that she had somehow closed them, and she was met with the intense dark gaze of her husband as he moved above her. She released the sheets, and rested her hands back on his hips – she enjoyed palming him there as he swayed. There were trails of sweat lining his forehead. The next thrust found a drop of it fall from the tip of his nose, and it landed on Irene's cheek. He smiled apologetically, but couldn't wipe it away, not with his only hand holding him up for support. Irene shook her head slightly to indicate it didn't matter. She moved her hands to his face to dry his forehead and push his hair back. His smile widened, his lids lowering a little, and he looked so, so young that Irene didn't know whether it was her moral responsibility to put a stop to this tryst.

But she remembered that this was his face only. She too had a face that had not yet lost all its youth, and she knew that there were places where people were older than their faces. Like their hearts. Their minds. Like the hard, thick piece of him piercing her that all but screamed _man_.

He bit his lip and made a face like he was pained, and her heart gave a small lurch, a memory stirring beneath her clouded mind. It was astounding how pain and pleasure could manifest in such similar expressions. Her right hand trailed from his forehead down to his mouth, where her fingertips coaxed his lip from between his teeth.

“Don’t bite,” she whispered in staccatoed breaths. What she wanted to say really was that he didn’t need to stay quiet. Her attendants knew he visited her at nights. And perhaps she wanted to hear him too, to hear what she was doing to him, to reaffirm that there were thing she could give him other than pain.

But these were one of the few times she found herself profoundly inarticulate.

Eugenides released his lips and bent down to nuzzle her by her ear. This close she could at least feel his own heavy breaths against her cheek. He was speeding up, every other thrust a wild snap of his hips. The pressure was building up inside of her as well, a salacious warmth getting more intense by the second.

That was when he stopped.

She released a breath, confused and surprised. When he raised his head, his mouth curved into a mischievous smile before he leaned down and caught her own in a soft, delicate kiss. Her impending climax rolled back from the pinnacle, and she hissed against the ebbing feeling.

“Why...” the word slipped out of her as Eugenides continued to kiss her in that slow, careful manner. She felt him smile again against her lips. He pried them open, and busied himself with her mouth for the next few moments, so that neither of them could have gotten a word out. Finally, breathless and satiated, he stopped. Looking down at her, his grin was both wide and embarrassed.

“Remember the first–”

“I nearly don’t,” she admitted. “But it had stayed with you, for some reason.”

He groaned then, as he surely rehashed the memories of their wedding night which, though quite far from the whispered insults and rumours she heard littering the palace, still had its fair share of bumps. Neither of them had had more than a clinical knowledge of marital relations, and throwing ink pots had not exactly been the best kind of aphrodisiac. Eugenides had to spend an inordinate amount of time in foreplay, because – in his own words – his brothers said so. Trying to prepare her had only inflamed him more, and by the time he’d taken her, he spent himself after the first thrust. A stark contrast from minutes earlier when they had both been lachrymose, they shared a moment of rather embarrassed laughter. Eugenides had refused to look at her, and when she had turned her head, she could see him red to the ears. He only lifted his head once his other was hard and ready for her pleasure again.

“It was... not my best moment,” Eugenides said.

After the first night, during all the other times they were together he made sure to stall off his release for as long as possible, and sometimes it meant stopping hers too. But while he used that gap to calm himself, he made sure her pleasure wasn't idle for too long. After all, he was still talented with his hand. Holy gods, she might actually lose her mind in bliss if he still had two, though that line of thought racked her with guilt. He was talented with his tongue as well, and he did not quite care how many times he drove her over the edge so long as she did so at least once before him.

“I didn’t mind,” she told him, a small smile ghosting over her lips. She pulled him down again, nudging his nose with hers. “I was rather proud of eliciting that kind of response.” Then she kissed him.

It was the truth. She did not mind. As a young woman growing up, she had feared of being taken unripe, and had convinced herself that it was the most likely reality; any other husband would not have cared. Irene could be a fool at times, but not fool enough to be ungrateful for her ecstatic nights simply because of a few awkward mishaps. In truth, she found them quite endearing.

Eugenides kissed her back once more before rolling over. Suddenly exposed to the cool night air, Irene shuddered and pulled up the blankets. Eugenides sat by the headboard and patted his lap. “Want to ride?”

Irene shook her head. She was taller than him standing, and sitting on his lap had been quite awkward for her the first couple of times they tried. And she would rarely ever admit inferiority to her husband, but there was no denying that her stamina in rocking wasn’t nearly as strong as his. He liked it though. His face would be level with her chest, and he could enjoy himself. Not that she didn’t enjoy it, but her husband, though now fully grown, still sported a slight, lean frame. Staring down at him with his scars fully displayed, he sometimes felt quite fragile in her arms.

He chuckled. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not going to crush me?”

She knew she would not. But there was a part of her that balked at the position he proposed, as if sitting on him would only reinforce the dominance and severity of the courtly persona she did not want to bring to bed. Not here in the shadows. Not with him. Her nonchalance and her passionless character were strangely incongruent to the relations she desired to cultivate with her husband, and she was more than happy to leave that by the doorstep. She knew that her feelings about this matter did not make sense. Not by the logic she had adhered to for more than a decade as a ruthless queen. But she also hungered for a chance to be other than, and to be different from, the woman who had cut off his hand. And if that meant shedding Attolia to reveal a little bit of Irene, she would welcome that chance.

She rolled over then, but not to sit on his lap, only to place herself between his legs.

“Now, you don’t have to do that,” he said, hand sliding beneath her chin to pull her face up.

“You do it to me,” she whispered as his lips landed on hers. When he pulled away, she added, “I want to please you too.”

“You can please me, my queen, by riding me,” he patted his lap again.

“Or I can do this.” She looked down at his stiff member, and encircled it in both hands. She gripped him hard, still finding his engorgement a fascinating sight after three weeks of marriage. She had never been partial to any other man, and had always assumed in the past that bedsport with her husband would be quick and dull. The streak of wantonness that Eugenides was able to elicit in her was something quite alien, and she would be more frightened of it had it not also stirred her curiosity and longing. Holding his length between her hands, she realized that what she had assumed would provoke repulsion in her many years as an unwedded queen turned out to provoke lust. A strong, primal lust that had escaped her life entirely until her second marriage.

She rubbed him across his length, the combined sheen of her own juices and his sweat pooling against the circle of her thumb and fore-finger. His tip leaked a white wetness that she was more than familiar with by now. She looked up at him, and found him panting heavily, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Leaning closer, she licked the tip with the flat of her tongue, an act she had constantly heard from the hushed giggles among her father’s concubines when she was younger, or from the harem of women her first betrothed had taken for lovers. She never imagined enjoying this act with that gross, wretched man. She pushed him out of her head, and instead concentrated on the sight of Eugenides’s brown skin, the sculpted planes of his abdomen, the twitch of the muscles in his thighs. She felt like lust incarnate, entertaining all kinds of thoughts about him that she would never find the courage to voice to anyone. She would never dare tell a soul about the things that passed through her mind whenever she was with her husband. She focused on his heady scent, and his very, very quiet pants. She licked him again, and then again once more. Finally, deciding how much she was liking his taste, she moved even closer and enveloped his tip in her mouth.

He gasped audibly. Then a string of curses and prayers combined escaped from his lips. After giving him several soft, loving suckles, she released him slowly and looked up at him. He was breathing hard.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Do you even know what you’re doing, my beautiful wife?” he asked in return, an unsure smile on his face. His chest rose and fell with his uneven breaths. Sweat made his chest shiny, and she realized she wanted her mouth on him there too. She wanted her mouth on every inch of his skin.

“I’ve heard of this,” she answered, almost defensively.

“So have I, thanks to my plethora of cousins,” he said dryly. “I just never imagined... even in my wildest fantasies that the _Queen of Attolia_ would be doing it to me.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully, lips rubbing against the flesh of the head. “You mean to insinuate that you’ve imagined another woman doing it to you?”

“Gods no!” Slowly, he reached with his hand to caress her cheek, then outlined her nose, then inserted a long finger in between her lips. She kissed it and took it into her mouth. Her hands gripped his base. “I just didn’t think you’d be up for it.”

She released his finger, and he continued to softly brush her face with it. She answered him, “It’s not the first time you’ve managed to convince me to do things I otherwise would not do.” She gave him a brief smile, then turned back her attention to his pulsing member. She licked it again, and then took it into her mouth. She had only been suckling him for a minute or so, when his hand buried itself in her hair and began to ease her away.

“Stop, stop, please,” he said.

She immediately let go, his words echoing a not-so-distant memory. He must have realized it too, because he looked at her suddenly and cringed. “It was good, it really was,” he stated almost apologetically. “But I'm close, and I didn’t want to spend myself that way.” He pulled her closer, until both his arms were tight around her waist. She didn’t have a choice but to move up to his lap, and when her knees buckled and she set herself down, he slid readily into her still wet, aching core.

Both of them moaned. She rested her head on top of his, one hand cradling his neck, the other rubbing his scalp gently. His hair was one of her favourite parts of him, if wives could hypothetically have favourite parts of their husbands. She closed her eyes, savouring having him inside her again, feeling quite stretched as she always did whenever he entered her. The ache in her core was eased a little by his heat and thickness.

“Irene,” he whispered. “Aren’t you going to move?”

“Nice try,” she muttered back, kissing the top of his head.

She felt, more than heard, him laugh. He rolled them both over to begin another round of love-making.

* * *

His wife once again beneath him, Gen took a moment to hook his arms beneath her legs to pull them tighter around his waist. The act caused him to slide in deeper, and he watched her close her eyes. Her lips parted to release a sigh. She was an exquisite sight to behold. The silver stream of moonlight from the window highlighted her body, and she looked almost ethereal with her pale, moon-kissed skin, her ruddy cheeks, her lips plump from his bites. His gaze trailed lower, down to her breasts, the tips rosy and so stiff that his mouth watered just at the sight of them. He slid his hand down to her right breast, and began to play with her. She sighed again. It was one of those times he sorely wished he had two hands, and only a strict reminder that this – _him being married to her_ – might never have happened if he still had both. That thought could pull him back from the dregs of regret. Touching both her breasts seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and besides, it was not like he did not have other resources.

Gen, while keeping his hand busy, bent down to take his wife’s other nipple in his mouth. She gasped softly, a sound he doubted he would ever tire of. One of her hands roamed his back, nails digging in just enough that he knew there would be light scratches there in the morning. She tangled her other hand in his hair.

And with that, mouth and hand both at work, he began to move his hips in soft, quick pumps. The sudden movement caused her to clench him briefly, but then she relaxed.

The grip of her walls was something that fascinated him ever since their wedding night. He had not known exactly what he expected of a woman, but somehow something as small as the occasional spasms had not entered his mind; and as it turned out, it wasn’t as small of a deal after all. As cliched as it may sound, it drove him nearly insane. Especially in the beginning when they were just learning the tricks of the trade.

After he had barely recovered from the shame of his disastrous first time, he had made it a goal to master the overwhelming sensations his wife evoked in him. The second time they found themselves entangled in his queen’s bedsheets, he had taken the time to experiment a little. When he had settled himself inside of her, he forced himself to be still. He did not budge, not even a little, causing a bout of frustration from Irene.

“Hey, I’m just relishing you,” he had told her. He reached out his hand to cup her face, devoid of her usually cool expression. For several minutes, he stayed that way, trying to get used to the feeling of her heated walls surrounding him tightly. Sometimes she would shift, and they would clench. When she got positively impatient that she began pulling back, he had held her hips down to keep her still, and then brought his thumb to the pearl of flesh that he knew pleased a woman most from his brothers and cousins’ stories.

She had arched so violently, sharply bringing a hand to cover her mouth. The next few moments were ingrained in Gen's mind so deeply, he would probably never forget them even if the gods wiped his memory away. He watched her thrash on the bed, moving to the rhythm of his finger as he tried to unlock her body’s secrets as he would the doors to a treasury. His grandfather had always told him that the best way to learn was on the job, and learn he did. He braced himself against the euphoria that threatened to overcome him as her body shifted its grip on him again and again. She would tighten and loosen with no predictability, no control. When she finally came, she contracted like a compressed spring, her walls shivering in their chokehold against him. Gen thought he would embarrass himself a second time.

But he hadn’t. And he had given her a few moments to collect herself, before starting the game all over again. It drove her mad, he could tell; it drove him mad too, but there had been something so hypnotizing about studiously memorizing the way she felt around him. He had done it four times, and after the fourth, he’d began to make love to her earnestly.

And now, three weeks later, he could tell that his practice was paying off. He was able to postpone his climax (at the very least, he lasted longer than a single thrust, thank the gods), and he was able to bring his wife to her own most of the time before himself. There were still instances when Irene could somehow turn the tables. Most often, she did not do it deliberately. It would be an expression she made, a gesture, a noise, or another little thing she was most likely not aware of, that would suddenly set him off. Other times, he knew she was trying to challenge him in his own game.

He pulled himself away from her chest, and he placed his arms instead on either side of her. She continued to cling to him, as he increased his pace and he deepened his thrusts. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and they felt so warm and so soft, and she smelled so, so good. One of these days, he would lose his mind making love to her, he was certain of it.

“Eugeni--” she moaned. “Eug... uh.”

His laugh was just a whisper. “You do know you can call me Gen? I imagine it’s easier to say in the heat of passion,” he said in between pants.

“I love you,” she said instead. This close, their breaths were deafening, even though he knew they were being relatively quiet. “You know that, right?”

Gen bent his head so that his lips was against the skin of her jaw. “Yes,” he answered, and knew that she heard him. Putting all his weight on his right arm, he reached down to circle her clit with his finger.

“Gen!” she gasped his name then. He pressed his thumb down harder, making sure to circle the entire nub of flesh. She was so wet, he knew he’d definitely done a good job tonight. That was an advice from one of his older sisters. Sometimes, it paid off to be the baby of the family.

Irene buried her face in the crook of his neck to muffle her moans. She felt around for his hand, probably forgetting in her bliss-fogged mind that his hand was the reason she was in a state of frenzy in the first place. Instead, she managed to grab a hold of the stump of his right arm. She clasped it, and turned her head to it; he couldn’t move it, since his arm was the only thing keeping him up. Gen watched as she laved it with wet, messy kisses.

Gods above, he might faint.

He sped up, both his hips and his finger, and just like that, she crashed over the edge. Her arms tightened her grip on him, and her walls spasmed around his member. No longer able to delay his own gratification, he too soon followed after her.

He did not remove himself from her immediately. She’d told him more than once that she liked having him inside after their rounds. And he was nothing but accommodating, at least with regards to her wishes.

“One of these days, I will get you to top,” he said. He was caressing her soft skin, imagining what it would be like to have their release while she was grinding his lap.

Her laugh was a precious little thing. “And then what?” she asked. “Will you have me on all fours as well? The same way you found Baron Parthenios and his mistress when you were creeping around the palace and accidentally found them... busy?”

Gen chuckled. He had not expected that particular room to be occupied. “Sure, why not?” he answered her. “My only qualm is that I won’t get to see your face.”

“It matters to you?”

“Of course,” he answered. “Maybe later on when I’m more well-versed with your body, I don’t need to see your face to know what you’re feeling. The last thing I want is to find out you’ve fallen asleep, bored as a laundress watching her clothes dry.”

He watched her try to control the giggle that fought its way out of her mouth. Smiling at him, shy but tranquil, she responded, “That’s impossible.”

Gen still sometimes could not believe he was now privy to this side of her. It was a side that he had witnessed when he had spied on her throughout the years, but never revealed to anyone else willingly. He pulled away the locks of hair that were matted against her sweaty forehead.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “But you know that already.”

“You better enjoy it then,” she answered. “As Phresine likes to remind me, beauty fades. I’ll wager you still have about a decade to find a beauty in your bed.”

Gen snickered. His wife could be so self-deprecating in subtle ways. “Hey, remember I found you beautiful even before everyone else did.”

“Back when you were six, yes. You told me.”

“Older,” he corrected.

Her smile deepened, and she snuggled into her pillow a little bit more.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

She raised one eyebrow. “I suppose you have something else in mind other than sleeping?”

He smiled back. “I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter was my first lemon, and I only wrote it because I was in desperate need to find a steamy, loving piece for Gen and Irene. I didn’t think I’d write another lemon again, but here I am with a new chapter. I hope I don’t make it a habit, hah! 
> 
> Warning: This chapter depicts the wedding night mentioned in the previous chapter. It is chock full of awkward first-time stumbles, so if that’s not your thing, or you think it’s OOC, or you’re easily affected by second-hand embarrassment, this story might not be for you. Otherwise, enjoy ~

After the inkpots were thrown and the tears cried, there was now nothing between Gen and Irene except for the dark and the shadow of their impending consummation. A creature of the night, Gen should have felt more comfortable, standing across his wife just several feet from the bed. His palms were wet, and not from the tears he’d wiped away just minutes before, both his and hers. No, he was no longer dolorous. He was anxious.

And he was pretty miffed about being anxious, because this was his godsdamned wedding night, and he was supposed to feel nothing but passion and excitement. Most men usually did. But then again, most men did not marry women who cut off their hands.

Irene held his eyes, her expression expectant, because _of course_ she was waiting for him to make a move. That’s what brides did. Yet here he stood frozen, his mind suddenly seized by the thought of his wooden right hand. Should he remove it? Should he not? Would it bother her to see his stump? Would it stunt her passion? Would it bother her if he kept it on? He was aghast with the thought of it thumping uselessly against her body.

He was an idiot. There were so many things he forgot to think through.

Suddenly, Irene gave him an almost imperceptible smile, her shoulders sagging. “It’s fine,” she told him, and turned around to loosen the elaborate bun-and-braids of her hair. When her hair fell to her back, she worked on the ribbons of her dress. This was not the same dress she wore to their wedding earlier in the day. Her attendants had clothed her in a simpler, yet no less stunning, dress for the special event in the evening. Its array of ties and buttons were simple enough even for a one-handed man to undo without the help of attendants.

Gen ended up cursing the simplicity of that dress as it slipped off his wife’s body, leaving her in nothing but her thin, translucent nightshirt. It happened so quickly. Here he was still standing and she had already undressed herself without once turning back to him. Gen felt like he missed a moment in time he could never steal back. She sat down on the bed, and with one unsure glance at him, lay back on the pillows, hands resting on her stomach.

With eyes clenched closed, she said, “All right. I am ready.”

What?

Gen looked around the room, the entire situation feeling rather surreal. Was this truly how it was supposed to go? Gen knew he was young, but he had never felt his lack of years so distinctly as he did now. He’d assumed relations between a man and his wife were supposed to... well, be warmer and nicer, and be filled with hugs and kisses. But perhaps hugs and kisses were things reserved for youths. Or perhaps they were things reserved for the brothels. Gen would punch that philandering Therespides the next time he visited Eddis. Gen had thought the man would give some good advice given his experience, but well, Therespides was not the only one in the Eddisian court who, while sympathetic to Gen’s ‘unfortunate’ marriage, would not spare a joke on his behalf.

Irene cracked one eye open to observe him. Then she sighed again, and she tucked her hands tightly behind her back. “Here, I won’t touch you.”

What?

Okay, now Gen was certain he was missing something.

He could not remember ever seeing her this reluctant and awkward, even in the moments he’d glimpsed when she was all alone. Her voice was soft, and while it usually was even when she commanded those around her with ease, it lacked the authoritative undertones and the bite he’d come to associate with her. And while her actions appeared to indicate she did not want him, her words seemed to point at a different issue.

He finally screwed his courage to the sticking place and approached the bed. He sat down beside her, and waited until she looked at him.

“Do you want to do this?” he asked.

Irene seemed confused by the question. She pushed herself into a sitting position, her back padded by the pillows, knees pulled up to her chest.

“Of course,” she answered. “We must. The legitimacy of our marriage hinges on this night, and the court will be in uproar–“

“Forget about the court for a moment,” Gen insisted. “Do _you_ want this?”

“I am always pleased to do my duty.”

Gen laughed, not out of mirth. “That’s a lie; you’re not always pleased, and you know it. Irene, if you don’t want this, just tell me, and I can slip away. Nobody will know.”

She thought for a moment, then narrowed her eyes at him. “What will you do then? Look for that pretty maid? I left her at Ephrata, just so you know.”

Gen laughed again, getting more despondent. “You have been around a lot of wicked men, and I am sorry you had to endure them.” He took a deep breath, then released it. He looked at her, summoning all the truth he could from his bones. “I won’t look for a maid, or any other woman for that matter. You don’t have to feel like you need to offer me your body just so I wouldn’t seek someone else. I won’t. Now, do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“Why won’t you touch me?” he asked.

“I know what my touch does to you,” she told him. “I watched your face when I held your cheek. I saw the shivers. And I know what you felt, because I made sure you would feel it.” Gen watched her clasp her hands tightly. “I won’t touch you if it bothers you, and you can...” she gestured to her body. “I – I don’t really know how you want to go about this, but you can... well, you can do whatever is comfortable for you.”

Gen almost laughed again, the only thing stopping him was his heart breaking. There he’d been standing, wondering if Irene found him repulsive, and here she was thinking _he_ found _her_ repulsive. What a pair they made.

“Oh, Irene. There’s nothing more I’d want than for you to touch me,” he said and meant it. She looked at him a little doubtfully. “And tonight isn’t about my comfort, but yours.” He looked pointedly at the white stretch of blanket that would catch the bride’s blood. He wasn’t the one doing any bleeding tonight, and he wanted to make sure that there was as little stain on that piece of cloth as appropriately possible.

Gen reached out to take one of her hands, and held it over his cheek. He didn’t miss the slight tug she gave, but he held her eyes as much as her hand, and tried to convey wordlessly that it was _okay_. This was okay. He wanted this. She cupped her hand over his cheek, her thumb caressing his skin. They watched each other for a breathless moment before Gen smiled, nodding to her dress on the floor.

“Missed that chance, didn’t I?” he said. “Your hair too. I wanted to take care of those myself.”

“Oh,” she said. “You weren’t moving so I thought...”

“It’s alright. It’s my fault, sorry. I was too busy wondering what I should do with my wooden hand.”

Irene looked at the appendage at the end of his stump. She retracted her hand from his cheek, and gently cradled his wooden hand in both of hers. With great care, she began to untie the thick laces on the cuff. When she had pulled them off completely, she slid the cuff from his arm. She pulled back his sleeve to reveal his stump, and she showered it with soft strokes. Gen shivered, remembering how she first did something like this when he had questioned the gods and they knocked him out with a nightmare of exploding fire and rocks. He had thought it felt intimate back then. It was even more so now.

“You’re not going to start crying again, are you?” he asked, watching her give his arm an aching look. “We’ve spent enough tears tonight.”

When she looked up at him, he leaned in to catch her lips in a kiss. It was probably the first real kiss they shared. She had not kissed him back when he stole one from her in the mountains before the Medes came to capture him. They shared one kiss during the wedding ceremony, but it was perfunctory. But this kiss, well... this was the kind of kiss he’d expect from a woman and her groom.

It tickled in a good way. In a way that didn’t make him want to move away. Her lips were soft and tasted still of the wine they had at the celebratory feast. He felt her shift from hesitation to curiosity in a space of a warm breath, and all the while, she continued to brush his stump with her fingertips.

It was somewhat of a shock when Gen realized he was getting quite hard. He pulled away from her, a little embarrassed. Irene looked back at him, a dusting of pink across her cheeks. She slid a little bit down the bed so she could rest her head on the pillows once again. Gen became even more embarrassed as he watched the hem of her nightshirt roll up her thighs. He didn’t bother being discreet, because heck, her nightshirt wasn’t either. Neither were his pants.

His heart raced in apprehension.

“I’m ready if you are,” she said. With great difficulty, Gen pulled his gaze up to her face again; aside from her slight flush, her face retained the same beautiful, neutral expression. He wondered what feelings she was trying to hide.

“Are you really?” he asked, forcing his mind to focus. He didn’t think a single kiss, not even a very long one at that, could prepare a woman for her first taking. Not by the accounts his sisters and other married – and supposedly concerned – cousins had told him.

She nodded.

Feeling his cheeks flame, he leaned closer to her as if reaching for another kiss, but instead, he murmured a quick ‘excuse me,’ before sliding his hand between her legs. He gave her lips a tender stroke with two fingers, surprised at her heat. She gasped, arching off the bed. He held her with his handless arm as her head fell on his shoulder. He pressed his fingers against her one more time, before pulling away. He held his fingers against the light, observing with his eyes what he already felt with his skin. They were dry.

When he looked back at her, she was looking at him with a look of irritation. “You could have warned me.”

“I said ‘Excuse me’!” he protested and showed her his fingers. “I don’t think you’re ready.”

“What do you mean?”

“My sisters said the woman is supposed to be wet.”

“...your sisters?”

Gen blushed. “It was an uncomfortable lecture. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Irene extracted herself from him and leaned towards the bedside table. She pulled open the first drawer, and took out a small object. All the while, Gen was reeling with the realizing that he’d just fingered a woman. Aaah.

Irene showed him a bottle.“Perhaps that must be why Phresine gave me this,” she said. They looked at the bottle together, no taller than half of Gen’s palm. Irene twisted the cap open, and the aroma of lavender permeated the air. She tipped it until a few drops slipped out, and Gen saw that it was oil.

Gen took the bottle, cap and all, and threw it across the room, where it met the same fate as its inkpot cousins. He met Irene’s shocked eyes with his own determined ones. “Oh please, I’m doing this by myself.”

He wiped the oil off on the hem of her nightshirt, before releasing the knots of his boots. Once he’d taken them off, he positioned himself astride her hips, though he did not put his weight on her. “Alright, this is the first time in a long, long time I have admitted this, but I think it’s an appropriate time to be humble. I know what I am doing... in theory. In practice, not so much. So I’d need your help. You have to tell me what feels good and what hurts, okay?”

She thought for a moment. “Would I know the difference?”

“Oh gods, if I’m that bad, I personally give you the permission to hang me!”

A chuckled died on her lips as she pressed her fingers against her mouth. “I only meant that I have heard pain and pleasure go together in this kind of thing. Especially for a woman.”

Gen cringed. “What shocking things you’ve heard. I’m not quite into... _that._ ” He took a deep breath. He eyed her for a moment, assessing her state. She had slightly more colour than usual, and it was heartwarming to see the hint of a smile on her lips. He smiled back at her and pointed at the laces on the front of her nightshirt.

“Can I?” he asked. She nodded. He could already see her breasts through the thin fabric, the peaks a lovely pink colour. He loosened the laces, and pulled the sides of the fabric apart, so that her entire chest was uncovered. Her nipples, soft and flat against the skin, quickly hardened into ripe points when they met the open air. Gen touched one with his finger for just a moment, before deciding to push the straps of the nightshirt down his wife’s shoulders so that her upper torso was completely exposed.

Gen heard her sigh as he lowered himself on her. He buried his face first at the crook of her neck, where she still smelled strongly of perfume. He kissed her there, relishing the feeling of his lips on her skin, of the intimacy afforded by their closeness, and the feeling of the weight of her breast as his hand began to play with her right one. The rise and fall of her chest indicated her quickening breaths, and her hands trailed up his waist where they dug into his clothes.

He played with her by touch alone, his fingers delighting in the soft, rubbery feeling of her nipple. Mostly, he flicked it gently with his fingers or rolled it in between; one time he dared risk a slight pinch, and he elicited a moan from her. His lips found her lobe and he tugged at it with his teeth before asking, “Was it good or was it painful?”

“Good,” she said quietly.

“Okay.” And he did it again. She squirmed beneath him, and it felt so good. She was so soft under him, so fleshy, so human _._ He left her earlobe alone and began to move back down, retracing the path he’d taken from her neck. This time, he went even further, licking the skin stretched over her collarbone, and then down, down, down, kissing her all the while, until at last his mouth was even with her left nipple.

“This one isn’t getting a lot of attention,” he mumbled. “Sorry,” he said as he gave it a peck. Then another one, and then finally, he stuck out his tongue to lick it. He heard her release a ragged breath, her fingers digging more deeply in his sides. He opened his mouth to give her a little suckle, enjoying the taste of her skin. She writhed beneath him, and he looked up.

“Is this good? Are you doing okay?”

She was biting her lip, and her brows were drawn together. There was no sight of her mask now, her face more naked than her body. His fingers left her breast to give her lips a feathery touch. “Take it easy there, or you might draw blood.” She stopped biting then, and opened her eyes. They stared at each other for a breathless moment, before Gen continued with his task.

He traveled down her body, planting small kisses wherever he felt like it. Sometimes he stopped and marveled at a flaw on her skin, like a freckle at an odd spot, or some small faint scar he had no idea how she could have received. Once he was near her legs, he pushed her nightshirt up, where it bunched into loose folds around her midriff. He tongued a spot just below her navel, and she sprang up. She placed a hand on his head, stopping him.

“Where you going?” she asked, chest heaving. “What are you about to do?”

“Uhm...” Gen looked down.

“Why?”

“Well...” Gen remembered the smirk of his eldest brother, who had been married for some years now and had three demonic kids. _Foreplay, that’s the real deal for the gals. It might be your appetizer, but it’s her main course_. And he’d winked and nudged at Gen. Gen had assumed it was related to his sisters’ advice. “My brother said so.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. Then she shook her head resolutely.

“No? But I was told it would be fun for you.”

She closed her legs tightly and shook her head again. She pushed her nightshirt down, as a dark shade of crimson crept up her neck to her cheeks. Gen didn’t even know she was capable of blushing like Sophos. “You can touch me but... don’t go kissing me _there_ ,” she said.

“Why not? I heard it’s good...”

Her eyes went wide as if it was such an incredulous idea to her. “What shocking things you’ve heard,” she returned his response from earlier.

He smiled, and let it be. If she was not comfortable doing it, chances are she would not find it pleasurable either. He let his fingers crawl up her thighs, until his hand disappeared beneath the hem of her nightshirt. He eased his fingers between her folds again, and was welcomed with a seeping wetness that coated his skin. He wondered if she was ready. He realized he forgot to ask his sisters how wet was wet enough. On second thought, that was not something he would want to know from them.

He pulled away and looked up at her. “Alright, so what do you want to do?”

“Could I have you disrobe?” she asked, and Gen realized that except for his boots and his fake hand, he was still completely clothed. Ah, that must be why it was so hot. He crawled back up to her, and allowed her hands to fumble with the loops at the front of his waistcoat.

* * *

Irene felt tingly. She could have sworn her fingers were shaking as she unhooked the braided loops from their clasps. She could still feel the echoes of Gen’s touch between her legs, and it made her limbs feel like overcooked Ferrian noodles. She looked up at him. The fringes of his hair partially covered his right eye. The blue-silver rays of the moon highlighted the left side of his face, emphasizing the scar on his cheek. There was a godliness about him that ironically brought out every ounce of his humanity in juxtaposition; from the rise of his chest, to the regal slopes of shoulders, and the pleasurable heat emanating from his body. Irene sometimes wondered how in the world she could have ever found Nahuseresh handsome.

He gave her a sly grin, and she found herself suddenly frozen by his youth. Her finger stalled in their mission of undressing him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Uhm, remind me, how old are you again?”

His grin became lopsided. “Older than the minimum marriageable age, thank you very much.”

“Right...” she trailed off, reminding herself that if she was worried about taking his innocence, well, she had already done it a long time ago. The image of him crumpled on the mucky prison floor flashed through her mind, and her fingers got caught in the last loop of his waistcoat. She stilled, suddenly cold. Groping in the dark, she felt for the upper ends of her nightshirt, and pulled the straps over her shoulder again to cover herself from the abrupt chill.

“Hey,” she heard his voice, a little distant. When she looked up, his smile was gone. “Are you all right?”

Irene nodded. Of course she was; she had no reason not to be. She wasn’t the one with the missing hand. And she wasn’t going to throw a pity-party right now, not when her husband had just worked so hard to please her. The least she could do was reciprocate. He would never believe she loved him if she pulled away now.

She concentrated on pulling off the last loop from its clasp, and then helped Eugenides shrug off the coat. He still looked at her with concerned eyes, so she tried to avoid looking directly at him. What was wrong with her? Eugenides told her he wanted nothing more than for her to touch him, and she would do that. She swore to all the gods she didn’t believe in, she would do exactly that.

When she had thrown his waistcoat aside, she unlaced the ties on the front of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Almost instantly, Irene was rapt with the view of his upper body, criss-crossed with scars and a few fresh bruises. There was a large scar under his left collarbone, and she knew that if she snaked a hand to his back, she would find a matching scar where an Attolian sword had once entered and pierced right through his chest.

She knew they should be making love, but it was hard to look at him without feeling the weight of a million unforgivable things she had done. So she resorted to one of the things most familiar to her. She shoved the guilt down, all the way down into a place she rarely looked, just so she could do what needed to be done. Or like in this situation, _un_ done. Irene reached for his breeches, feeling quite sorry she could not lave his body with the attention he gave hers, and hating herself for it. But if she did, she was certain she would cry again, and that would just upset him even more.

She pulled the laces loose, noticing how quick and functional her movements were compared to his slow, loving ones. _But he had siblings to advice him_ , she told herself, to appease yet another layer of inadequacy. _What do I know of this_?

Irene was so preoccupied with her thoughts and movements that she was caught off guard when Eugenides slid his hand through her hair and planted a deep, searing kiss on her lips. She gasped, and he turned the kiss into an open-mouthed one, his tongue losing no time to rake over the roof of her mouth. He broke off for a second only to tell her, “Keep going, please.” And he plunged back, his hand angling her head so that he could have better access to the inside of her mouth.

All her thoughts dispersed, and it took her a while to realize that his comment referred to his breeches. She forced herself to continue, now blind to her task. Her fingers fumbled for the laces, trying desperately to sort out which parts were the ends or which were in the middle so she didn’t accidentally pull the wrong way. Her hand brushed against his length several times, in which Eugenides kissed her harder.

Finally the waistband loosened, and Irene slid the fabric down his slim hips. His breath quickened against her mouth in anticipation. Nervously, she felt her way from his hips down to his length, and wavering for only a moment, she circled it with her hands. He was thicker than she expected, and when she ran her hand up to find his tip, admittedly longer too. But perhaps that was because he was so much younger than her, that she had half-expected him to still be boy-sized.

His breath was shaky when he pulled away from the kiss and then leaned his forehead against hers. She kept up her caresses, enamored with his heat and his girth and his hardness. His flesh was smooth down there, except for the little bumps of veins that traveled the length of his member.

Gods, this thing was going inside her. Inside of her. Inside. She could not wrap her mind around it.

Eugenides cleared his throat. “Uh, have you seen a man before?”

“I have,” she answered. “My first husband was somewhat of a pig.”

He shoulders stiffened, and his eyes darkened. “Gods, Irene, did he–”

“He would flaunt his mistresses often,” she explained before he tumbled further down that line of thought. “During my one-year stay in his megaron before our wedding, I once returned to my room after a court function to find him with one of his girls in my bed.”

That particular mistress had been so in love with her betrothed, though Irene could never fathom why. Her previous husband had not been partial to any of his mistresses and rarely treated any of them like he loved them. But the mistress had been bitterly jealous of Irene anyway. The day before her wedding, Irene received a gift from her. It was a book, a compilation of explicitly drawn sexual positions. Several pages had been marked with a star, a note saying that they were her betrothed’s favourites. _You’re welcome_ , the mistress had written.

When Irene related this bit to Eugenides, he made retching noises. For a moment, he softened in her hands. She pulled them away and held his cheeks instead.

“Let’s not think about him,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I even brought him up. That’s not fair to you.”

Eugenides snorted. “What happened was not fair to _you_.” He stroked her hand as she held his face, his gaze steady and intense.

Finally, he disentangled himself from her and pulled off his pants, which had been sitting around his knees. When he turned back to her, he rid her of her nightshirt completely, before he pushed her gently into the pillows.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “Are you?”

He chuckled. “Yes.” Then he slowly released his breath. “Okay, should we do this?”

She nodded. She’s been waiting for so long.

Eugenides pushed her legs apart, and settled rather awkwardly between her thighs. He pushed her legs up so that her knees were bent, but then changed his mind and placed them back down. Then he lifted one almost to his shoulder. “Where do your legs go?” he mumbled. “Where do my legs go? Sheesh, I don’t know.”

Irene pulled him close and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Let’s try this for now,” she suggested. He gulped, then nodded. He inched a little higher up her body, until she felt his hot, blunt head nudge at her opening. He stared at her as he moved his hips forward. Irene winced as the pressure of his entry stretched her. Her face must have scared him, because no sooner did she feel the burn at her entrance, did he completely remove himself.

“Sorry!” he exclaimed.

“No, don’t – ”

“Too tight...”

“Come back in!”

“It hurt, didn’t it?”

Eugenides pulled away from her just slightly, leaning on his right arm. With his left arm free, he reached for her nether lips again. This time, after parting her folds, his fingers traveled all the way down to her core. When he inserted a finger, she had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound.

“Good or painful?” he asked.

“Good,” she answered. He then pushed in a second finger, and there she felt the burn from earlier.

He repeated his question, and she replied “Both” this time. He spent some time just pumping his fingers in a soft rhythm. When she released a soft moan, he pushed both fingers all the way up to his knuckles, and began to spread them apart inside her. Irene felt like she was going to faint from the intensity of the sensations. She was only vaguely aware of him kissing her brow; most of her attention was on his ministrations inside of her. Her hands gripped him tight when he crossed a finger over the other, or when he curled them to press against her walls.

After a few minutes of playing with her he removed his fingers and returned to his original position. He studied her carefully before lining himself up with her. His head pushed against her opening, and Irene felt overly-stretched again. He had done a valiant effort in trying to prepare her, but there was no way two of his fingers were nearly as thick as his erection. He continued to push into her, and the burning feeling grew until Irene felt a sharp, ripping pain. She clutched the sheets below her until the pain passed.

Eugenides continued to move in and in and in. She didn’t even remember him to be that big, but goodness, she felt so stretched and full, and he felt like a searing rod inside her. There was a flavourful mix of heat, one from the burning pain, one from his length, and the other what she assumed to be her own arousal.

Irene was shocked when he began to convulse. She held him tightly, heart hammering as she watched him shake. She felt the spasms rock him violently, and she had half a mind to call for help, when something even hotter was jettisoned inside of her. Oh. She realized what just happened. _Oh._

Eugenides slumped against her, panting hard. She found herself panting along with him. Unable to help herself, she began to giggle.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly against his ear. It was bright red, and she worried he had over-exerted himself. “Eugenides? Is there something wrong?”

He would not turn to look at her, even as she coaxed his head to. Irene did not know what else to do but rub his back, and play with his hair, all the while trying not to laugh. She could feel him trying to stifle his own laughter. When he moved, he refused to meet her eyes, and went straight to bury his face in her neck.

“Oh gods!” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I – I... ugh, how embarrassing!”

“It’s okay,” she told him. It dawned on her that the red tint of his skin was a full-blown blush. She continued to rub his back.

“No, it’s not!” he muttered.

“I’m glad it was pleasurable for you,” she said honestly.

“Well it should have been so for both of us. Give me a moment, and I’ll show you.”

They laid there for several minutes, Irene simply enjoying the warmth and closeness they shared. It had been a long, long time since she did not feel utterly alone even in the safety of her bed. She stewed in a mixture of fear and hope beneath her husband, a far cry from the stark and barren inner landscape that had accompanied her to sleep for so long.

Once Eugenides stiffened again inside her, he pushed himself up on his arms. He began to rock his hips. She found herself mesmerized by the faces he was making, and the way his bangs swayed to and fro with his rhythm. Her passage started to feel comfortably hot, no longer strained. His steady movements drummed up pleasure in her, and she sighed in contentment. It did feel rather nice.

“Damn,” he whispered. He was tense, his shoulder muscles all coiled as if he was getting ready to pounce. “Too much friction,” he mumbled to himself. “I shouldn’t have thrown that oil away.”

Irene watched as he winced, and she now understood that he was trying hard to stall off his release for the second time. The prospect warmed her from the soul all the way out to the tips of her fingers and toes. She gave him a fond smile.

He groaned. “Noo!” he said, forehead falling down to her collarbone. “No, why did you smile?” He was coming again, and Irene found it hilarious. When he was done, he pulled out from her faster than Irene could stop him. He sat at the edge of the bed and whined in the moonlight.

“I’m a horrible lover.”

She reached out and placed her fingers over his mouth. “Shush!” she said. “Shh... stop it.”

He pouted at her. “I had it, you know! I was in control, but then you smiled.” His expression softened, and he brushed her cheek with his stump. She turned to kiss it.

“And now, dear wife, I’m going back to my rooms to wallow in self-pity.”

She placed a hand on his arm to keep him close. “Why don’t you stay?” she suggested. “You can stay and leave in the morning.”

He thought for a moment.

“Only if you want to,” she added, unsure whether she was overstepping the fine line between needing him and burdening him. She had no right to ask more from him than what she’d already taken, after all.

He smiled. “I want to.” He crawled back into bed with her. “But it means you shall bear with all my whining.”


End file.
